Winter Sunrise Climbing on a Warm Fragrance
I rise to the smell of coffee,
and pull back the curtains.
It’s a sight I’ve known since I was young,
that thin winter light of dawn’s sunrise.
Every day it improvises.
Mist muzzled into the forest roots.
Clouds with a rhythm of their own.
The sky filling with that warm
bruised colour, and night cursing
daylight for its treason.
But the apple tree remains a riddle –
a single fruit hanging from the end
of a bare stem. And with each sunrise,
I am reminded that I was born to fall
into little pieces and specks of dust,
like that apple, one day falling from
its stem to become someone’s memory.